One moment I'm straddling him, solid and present and real.
The next, reality splits down the middle, and I'm seeing two of everything—two Cassiuses, two rooms, two versions of existence that refuse to merge into single truth.
He sits up fast.
His arms catch me before I can fully collapse, responding to whatever he sees in my face or feels through our bond. I'm not unconscious—that's the strange part. I can feel his arms around me, can feel the shadows wrapping me in a protective cocoon.
But I'm not in my body either.
The sensation is disorienting—being present without being present, aware of physical reality while simultaneously floating above it. Like my soul has decided it doesn't want to stay attached properly, drifting loose from its moorings without actually leaving entirely.
"What's wrong with her?"
Cassius's voice carries worry that sounds foreign coming from the usually composed Duskwalker. The concern bleeding through his tone makes something in my chest ache, even in this disconnected state.
"Something's calling her spirit out," Zeke explains, his voice carrying the particular weight of knowledge he shouldn't possess but somehow does. "She's not dead, but it's like she's in a trance of sorts."
"This started since she died," Mortimer observes.
"Temporarily," Atticus interjects, and then his voice shifts to fury. "Thatfucker!"
The fucker.
I frown—or try to, uncertain whether the expression translates when I'm only partially inhabiting my face.
Who is "the fucker"?
Laughter answers my unspoken question.
The sound comes from behind me, from the space between physical reality and wherever my drifting consciousness has ended up. It's dark and rich and carries the particular confidence of someone who believes themselves superior to everyone around them.
I turn.
Oh.
The being standing behind me is nothing like the man I apparently headbutted into unconsciousness. That version had been human-shaped, irritating but unremarkable beyond his impossible purple blood and refusal to explain himself.
Thisversion is something else entirely.
He stands at least seven feet tall—possibly more—his form a masterwork of terrifying beauty that makes every other creature I've encountered seem mundane by comparison. Dark purple and black incantations crawl across skin that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, each symbol pulsing with power that makes the air itself heavy with magic.
Wings extend from his shoulders.
They're massive—spanning wider than his considerable height, each feather a blade of darkness that seems sharp enough to cut reality itself. They shift between folded and extended as he moves, as if unable to decide whether to show off or conserve energy.
His tail swirls around him with serpentine grace.
The appendage is longer than any tail should be, covered in scales that shimmer between purple and black as it moves. The end keeps changing shape—sometimes pointed, sometimes blunt, sometimes configurations I don't have names for—as if it can't decide what it wants to be.
And he's walking toward me.
Each step carries the particular confidence of apex predators who have never encountered anything capable of threatening them. His eyes—those impossible, color-shifting eyes—are fixed on me with intensity that makes my drifting consciousness want to solidify just so it can flee.
"I don't know whether to be mad at the sight of you kissing that shadow excuse of a beast," he drawls, smirk spreadingacross perfect features, "or turned on to see you so dominant with a man double your size."
Shadow excuse of a beast.
The dismissal of Cassius sparks something protective in my chest, even in this disconnected state.
